


second squad, this is delahoy, be advised

by TLvop



Category: The Unusuals
Genre: Brain tumor, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Sarcasm, Support, Terminal Illnesses, crude language, making jokes about personal tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/pseuds/TLvop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has to die.</p><p>Delahoy wishes it wasn't such a big fucking deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second squad, this is delahoy, be advised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayachain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/gifts).



> I really hope you like this, and that it's within what you wanted! I tried to treat it how I think Delahoy would -- like it's somewhere between a joke and something irritating to be ignored :). I really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Many thanks to my fabulous betas, Claire, ashen_key, and kristin. <3.

It takes a long time to put together, apparently. Time is being a real bitch, lately – the difference between _yesterday_ and _last week_ is as meaningless as the difference between _Tudor-era England_ and _Some Other Fucking-era England_. But Beaumont wrote him a list on how to set everything up, which he sort of thinks he narrated to her. He sets up the camera and wipes the worst of the crap leaking out of his eyes away. The liquid in his head knows a bad deal when it sees it and is making a break for it.

He straightens his shirt, clicks the _on_ button and sits back.

For a moment he just stares at the camera, before clearing his throat. Even the medical community's given up on him, now; they're kicking him out of the hospital tomorrow. Might as well get this show on the road.

"Hey, uh, welcome! To my funeral, I mean."

* * *

At first, Delahoy was really fucking pissed off at Shraeger. She completely violated every rule of the police brotherhood (do not acknowledge another officer's weakness, except as a point of mockery) in stepping in to pay for his end-of-life care. There was a nursemaid and everything, though how the fuck a 6'3 kid with muscles like a personal trainer counted as a _nurse_ , Delahoy wasn't really sure.

But after he cussed her out, and she silently gave him the double-bird, he started to realize how useful it was.

End-of-life care was supposed to make you comfortable at home. Delahoy's home was the precinct, and his nurse- _cum_ -disgustingly-athletic-Greek-God actually understood that argument. It helped to be dying; people took your asshole-ery a _lot_ better. Someone should make a tips list about this – if he'd known it, he might have let the secret out _before_ his brain made him pass out in the break room with the coffee pot in his hand.

Delahoy sat in his chair, watching the new cop (now precariously seated in Delahoy's wheelchair) who'd taken his chair and his desk and his decorative cactus and his partner. Not because he disliked the guy. Not really. Mostly because he was trying to see how long it'd take to freak him out.

Banks narrated the case to him – some guy got killed while trying to cart off a load of cucumbers from the store. 

"What, were they particularly, you know, phallic cucumbers?" Delahoy asked, and the kid looked up with wide eyes. Delahoy winked at him, and the kid almost jumped out of the wheelchair, head going straight back down to his paperwork. He was going to need to grow a little skin to stay in second squad, if a dead man making lazy crude jokes got to him like that.

"Why," Banks asked, "you looking for something?"

Delahoy focused his gaze on Banks, who smirked at him. 

"Nah, they were some sort of fancy cucumber. So I'm _thinking_ \-- a smuggling ring, right? Black market vegetables."

Delahoy tilted his head, and shrugged, before the sergeant's voice broke in.

"Banks, Chang! A rep – what are you _doing_ here, Delahoy?"

Delahoy thought this was obvious. "Uh-- dying, sir."

"Well, do me a favor, and try to do it _somewhere else_ ," the sergeant said, and the room went silent. 

"Sarge." Banks sounded hurt.

The sergeant sighed, running a hand over his face. "All right, all right. Just— don't do anything that'll get me sued on city property, okay, Delahoy?"

"Sir, yes, sir," Delahoy chirped, with a messy salute.

The sergeant stared at him for another minute before turning around and leaving.

The kid – Chang, apparently – spoke up after a moment: "So, uh. What'd he come over to tell us?"

* * *

So, that had been stupid. Sure, going to the precinct had been good, and fun, but when he couldn't even sit up the next day – 12:13pm, according to the bedside clock – even Delahoy had to admit it'd been stupid. Worth it, though. What was the point of being cautious when you were going to be dead sooner rather than later, anyway?

He managed to convince himself for a while – even with Leo bringing him dinner, and his nurse all but manhandling him to the restroom, and the fact that eating was just… disgusting and impossible after the first bite -- that he'd get over it soon. Delahoy had dealt with wearing out easily already – before he was strong-armed into being hospitalized by the whole fucking squad, he'd started to take sick days twice a week to just… recuperate.

It worked for him, okay?

But now his "big improvement" was being able to pull himself up against the bolster, so when Beaumont showed up he was upright enough to play some poker. Beaumont tried to convince him that she let him win, but they both knew her poker face only worked against people who'd never actually talked to her before.

She let him keep the jelly beans they'd been betting, so he didn't argue it. He even ate a couple of them, though they tasted mostly like sugary boogers.

He didn't eat any more after having that realization, instead gifting them to the lady who'd replaced the guy for the night. She was okay, but he'd had enough experience having to have a gal help him take care of himself in the hospital to last a lifetime.

Heh.

Except for Banks, everyone seemed to be on some sort of rotating schedule. It showed a level of team-work and coordination that he, frankly, hadn't been aware second squad had.

He told Alvarez that he was impressed. Alvarez sort of puffed up, but mostly looked as mildly dejected as he had the whole time.

"C'mon, Eddie," Delahoy said, hoping to get a smile out of the prick, "you look like somebody's dying."

Alvarez's big eyes looked up at him, and then he breathed a laugh, shaking his head. "Sorry for being a downer, Eric."

Apparently Delahoy'd broken the first name barrier. Great. No going back.

"Yeah," he said, making _give me_ hands for the stack of books-on-CD Alvarez brought along with an old Walkman. All of them were by Heinlein, and the one on the top was  Stranger in a Strange Land. He stared at it for a long moment, before breathing a laugh. "It's kind of pissing me off."

Cole insisted on cleaning Delahoy's home – which he _really_ didn't have to, Delahoy's not a fucking slob, but it was … you know, it was okay. It's probably some Christian virtue. He even agreed to not use harsh cleaners, according to the tense conversation Delahoy half-overheard with the nurse. Delahoy was starting to get the feeling he was some sort of delicate flowering plant, or a… maybe a soufflé.

The food Cole brought when he visited was, like, scrambled eggs if scrambled eggs were actual food that people made with whisks and shit. He watched, concerned, while Delahoy ate what little he could, and talked about what was going on at the precinct. Apparently it had been five whole days since Delahoy was there, which seemed… well, it didn't seem _right_. The sergeant sent a dozen donuts with Cole, to keep visitors happy. At least, Delahoy thought that was why; the sergeant wasn't stupid enough to think he'd eat them.

Delahoy fell asleep before Cole even finished the first chapter of John, but at least he had asked before cracking his Bible.

When he woke up, Shraeger was sitting by his bed, listening to one of his books on CD.

"Hey, rich girl," Delahoy said, raising his eyebrows at her. "You can't afford your own entertainment?"

She snorted, and dug something out of her pocket, handing it to him. It took Delahoy a long moment to realize what it was – the medal he'd loaned to Walsh three years ago, so he could impress some chick. It's not even Delahoy's – he'd appropriated it from an evidence locker during the first corruption probe he assisted in. 

"He chickened out of visiting," Shraeger said, mouth twisted up into a smirk. "I mean, I got him in here for like ten minutes."

"Well, Walsh," Delahoy said, thumb rubbing against the medal's cold exterior. He didn't want to ask how long she'd been here, but now he had an IV in his arm – he's pretty sure he didn't have an IV in his arm before, but he wouldn't bet anything on it. Someone could tell him he'd had an IV this past month, and he'd be forced to believe them. "He's sort of emotionally stunted. Not like us."

"Nah," Shraeger agreed. "We're great at this."

Delahoy slept a lot. He wasn't really sure how much he slept, but it was a lot. Sometimes things happened, but mostly they didn't, and he was mostly relieved when people didn't try to talk to him. He hated having to remember how to respond, or why he even had to.

He opened his eyes. The room was dark, and his mouth was dry. He sniffled, and turned his head. He could see Leo, outlined in the dark, sitting on the chair next to his bed with his head laid on his crossed arms on Delahoy's bedside stand.

Delahoy smiled. What a sap.

He blinked, and blinked again, before falling back to sleep.

* * *

_Hey, uh, welcome! To my funeral, I mean. That's a little dark, isn't it? Heh. Thanks for making it out – I hope you drink the booze and don't take yourselves too seriously. I mean,_ **I** _don't take you that seriously, so do me a favor and sit back, relax, enjoy the fucking party. You heard me, Cole. Dead man's request, church boy._

_God, Leo, are you – are you_ **crying** _? Wow. That's … that's kind of pathetic, seriously. Miss you too, buddy._

_Anyway, I guess I just wanted to say thanks for sticking around. I realize it's not really for my stunning personality, though it might be for my good looks. Ladies? Whatever, it's been … good. And now I'm crying, heh. Didn't see that one coming._

_Stay safe out there, assholes._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm drawing greatly from personal experiences with extended severe brain pressure, and I'm honestly not certain if they map onto the experience of someone with a malignant brain tumor. Thankfully, the brain is a complicated thing, so hopefully this works. If you feel I've mis-stepped in any way, please let me know!
> 
> I hope you have the most lovely of yuletides, mayachain -- filled with hot or cold beverages (depending on ambient weather temps! :P) of your choice, and that you get to read amazing fic in as many fandoms as you click :).


End file.
